No Honor in Death by Eric Thomson Page A

I'll try to watch out for you on this end."
    "Thanks, Ezekiel.  It was good to see you again."
    "And you."  Holt rose and they shook hands.
    He watched her leave, worry creasing his brow.  Siobhan Dunmoore taking command of the  Stingray was the best, the only way out other than to let it all slide.  He didn't like what it might do to her, and he didn't like being less than truthful with her.  But needs must when the rot was spreading faster than it could be cut out.
    Siobhan was as exhausted and dispirited as he had ever seen her.  Vulnerable.  He wished again that he could be aboard the frigate as First Officer to protect her, most of all from herself.  But he had a job to do here, and intellectually, he knew he would be of better help to Siobhan this way.  Yet it still hurt to see her like this, and to know that she faced so much more than just a crew with a morale problem.  At least he'd been able to swing her old cox'n from the Don Quixote .  A bit hard to get him out of a Special Ops team, but necessary.  Guthren was one of the disciples who would die before betraying Dunmoore.  One of the small, select brotherhood to whom loyalty was akin to religious faith.
    "A friend of yours, Holt?"  A voice behind him asked tonelessly.
    He turned to face Captain Darius Jadin, Flag Captain of the 31st Battle-Group and Admiral Kaleri's familiar.  Holt heartily detested Jadin, and he knew that dislike was mutual.  Jadin's haughty manners, and his reputation as a martinet on board ship put him firmly on Holt's hate list.   Respectfully, but with a distinct 'none of your business tone' he replied, "My former skipper, sir.  On the Shenzen .  Haven't seen her in years."
    Jadin grunted dismissively and turned to leave.  Then he stopped and speared Ezekiel with his dark stare.  "A piece of advice, Holt.  Keep your nose in your own business and we'll all be happier."
    Ezekiel watched the Flag Captain leave, his single eye narrowed.  Jadin's turn would come soon enough.  His hands might not be as dirty as some, but dirty enough.

FIVE
    The citizens of Shredar's lower town quickly moved out of the way when they saw the tall Imperial Navy officer striding down the narrow, twisting alley.  Sons of the Warrior Caste were an uncommon sight among the poor plebeians, except for tyros searching out whores, cheap taverns and blood fights.  But this one was no tyro.  He wore the insignia of a ship Commander on his black uniform, and the long, curved dagger of his caste thrust into the broad green sash around his waist.  He took the uneven steps and cobblestone alleys with a confidence born of many victories, ignoring the stench and filth around him.
    Though the hunched beggars, thieving pedlars and diseased whores watched the Commander pass by with narrowed eyes, they wisely chose to ignore him.  Even if he were not scowling enough to promise instant death, annoying one of his caste was  very dangerous.  If a Warrior chose to visit the capital's slums, that was his affair, and no one else's, except maybe the Tai Kan 's, the Council's secret police.
    There was little on Shrehari Prime, or anywhere else in the Empire, that escaped the Tai Kan , including those fingered by the Council for swift execution.  After the events of the last few hours, the Commander well knew that he could die at any moment, and it was a perverse sense of defiance that had brought him to cross the lower town on his way to the tavern where his Second waited.  If the Council had set the Tai Kan on him, then let those mutant sons of diseased carrion-eaters act swiftly and take him now, where his murder would not raise an eyebrow.  In these parts, his body would disappear within moments.  There were many who used dead bodies for ritual, amusement or profit among the lower orders, especially the bodies of the high-born.
    As he passed beneath a flickering street lamp, those who cared to look would have seen an arrogant Imperial officer of pure race,